Here’s a pretty disturbing video showcasing the glamor associated with Meth….notice the sarcasm in the tone of my typing. I also attached the story of an ex-user experience with the drug which your should definitely stay way clear of, even if that means dropping your so-called friends who invite you to kick it up a notch during the weekend festivities.
I spent two years addicted to meth. I broke the addiction cold turkey. It was fcuking horrible, I was seeing shards and pipes EVERYWHERE (hallucinating).
I was never as bad as the video, but I was about four months away from that. I had lost so much weight that the callouses on my hand would shift when I gripped the steering wheel. I lost so much weight that when I bent down, my belt buckle would jab me under the ribs, painfully. One time when I came down from a tweakend, I slept for 30 hours straight.
It killed my best friend, twice. We had been friends for eight years when he robbed me, and then two years after that he killed himself (accidentally).
My wake up moment was when I took a look at my surroundings. I was in a trailer with five guys, none of us had taken a bath in five days, it was 3 in the morning. One of them had a crater on his forehead, where he’d been picking at a zit (and picking and picking and picking…), another was telling me about how he sucked dick in jail, and just… I knew I didn’t belong there. I left. I never went back to that life. The withdrawal was cruel, and I didn’t have a friend in the world anymore (when you’re a tweaker, all your friends are tweakers too… funny how that works out).
There are things you lose, that you can never get back, when you suffer from an addiction. I can’t remember the last time I was happy. I can find amusement in life, but it’s no replacement for -joy-.
Edit: I should clarify. I used meth for five years. For two of them, it was the only drug I was on. The only time that I wasn’t using was when I was asleep, or at work, and I would only sleep two days out of the week. I made enough money, and it was cheap enough, that I was never without.
The guy who robbed me wasn’t the friend I grew up with. He wasn’t my high school friend who came to hang out with me from 2am to 6am one night when I was feeling depressed. He wasn’t the same guy that helped me spend time with my first high school love. He wasn’t the same, awesome, best friend that I knew. Meth killed that friend of mine. Turned him into a scumbag that broke into my house while I was at work, and stole my computer and a big jar of loose change.
Two years after he robbed me, he accidentally hung himself (auto-erotic asphyxiation gone wrong). I had suspected him of the theft, but had confirmation after his death through a mutual friend. He bragged about how he stole from me.